Through the Heart
by streco
Summary: However handicapped by his blurred vision, Mark hurried to the fallen form’s side, crawling over next to the man he’d known as his best friend for twenty solid years. There was Roger Davis, a gaping hole in his chest, lying in a pool of his own blood.


Through the Heart

_Happiness is a warm gun  
__Bang, bang, shoot, shoot  
__Happiness is a warm gun_

The puddles that Mark stepped in were nothing compared to the icy hand that had gripped around his heart and squeezed the blood out of it. He'd heard the gunshot. He'd heard the murderer's cry, and he'd heard the actual firing of the weapon. The gallon of milk that had been in his hand slipped and fell, breaking open and conflating with the puddle around it.

The end of the alley emptied into a deserted road, and he stopped a moment to think. If the shot had come from that direction, and it sounded that far away, the quickest route would be—

Another twisted, sickening cry, this time from the victim, filled the cold night air, and Mark's feet took him quickly to the right and down another alley close to him. It was supposed to be a routine run for milk for Collins' cereal, a chance to get out into the rainy weather he usually enjoyed so much. But now, he felt the victim's pain and knew that he was responsible for saving a life tonight.

This alley ended and he took another left, following down the road. He could sense the tense bodies near him, could almost smell the bloodshed from where he was. For a brief second, he wondered if he were becoming snakelike—maybe if he stuck his tongue out—

"Anybody?" the wounded person's voice gurgled, and Mark's heart sped up several beats; that voice sounded just like someone's he knew.

Judging by the way their throat was clearly filled with blood, Mark calculated, thinking of all of his Med School knowledge, they'd been shot from the chest up, which gave them exactly—

"Help...!" They were tired, obviously, and seemed to be quite ready to give up.

In his blind fit of terror, Mark tripped, his glasses tumbling into the road in front of him, his entire left arm and left cheek tearing open. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice several horrified octaves higher.

Suddenly, there were headlights, and a car meagerly missed Mark's left arm and glasses. "Outta the way, asshole!" the guy from the car shouted, and the splash from the puddle shot up into Mark's eyes and now open slices.

Staggering on his stomach, he reached his glasses and jammed them onto his face, hustling up and bounding down to the alley where the shot individual was now choking.

The moment he set foot in the alley, he knew who it was.

The moment he set foot in the alley, tears burned his eyes.

The moment he set foot in the alley, Mark Cohen changed as a man.

However handicapped by his blurred vision, Mark hurried to the fallen form's side, crashing to his knees, crawling over next to the man he'd known as his best friend for twenty solid years. There was Roger Davis, a gaping hole in his chest, lying in a pool of his own blood.

The rocker's green sparkly eyes were drowned with rainwater and tears, and his left hand, the hand he played guitar with, was covering the bullet hole limply. "Mark," his lips hardly moved as he uttered the name, and Mark's heart broke into a thousand pieces. "You came."

"Yes, I came," Mark blubbered, "of course I came. Roger, shit—I have to get you to a hospital—I have to—I have to call someone—"

"Mark," Roger's eyes closed for a moment before jolting back open, "Mark, get out of... of the blood, Mark. It's my blood... the bad blood... and look at you, you're all cut up..."

"You want me to—what? About the—oh," _the AIDS? The AIDS, Roger? You honestly think I care about the _AIDS _right now?_

The one thing Mark cared about was the fact that he shouldn't be staring at the empty shell his best friend had once been; instead, he should be staring at the same amigo playing the guitar, or seeing how many Cheerios in a stack he could balance on the bridge of his nose—not lying in a pool of his own gore and disease on a rainy November night—

"I'm dying, Mark," Roger's face morphed into utter pain, "aren't I? Tell me the truth... am I dying?"

"Not if I get help—not if you let me call an ambulance—let me leave you for one second—"

"Don't leave, Mark," Roger pleaded, blood spurting out from between his lips, his shaky right hand moving toward Mark's collar. "Please, please, please don't leave me, I need you here, I just need you right here..." a sob clipped out of his throat and one single tear rolled down his cheek.

"_Fuck_, Roger," Mark exhaled, now shaking. "Fuck, man, you can't leave me like this! You're not allowed to fucking leave me like this! You're supposed to be all warm and cozy in a hospital, saying you're not afraid, and then I'd hug you and we'd be best friends, and _then _you'd die! Peaceful, happy, not in pain!"

"Sorry if I'm fucking up the game plan," Roger weeped, but chuckled a bit as well. "Fuck, Mark, tell... tell Mimi that I love her, okay? Tell her that I love her this much," he made an attempt to spread his arms out, but when he took the pressure off of the bullet hole, he winced quite visibly and put it back.

In that split second, Mark saw the wound.

He turned around and threw up.

Then he was sobbing, on his knees, hunched over Roger's body. He felt like he was a five-year-old boy whose Dad had just been murdered right before his eyes, his savior suddenly gone. What was Mark to live for now?

"BFF, Mark," Roger smiled weakly.

However, after this smile, his face twisted, and then his eyes closed and a grin settled over his features.

Mark froze. "Roger?"

Nothing.

"_Roger?_"

No response.

"Oh, fuck—ROGER! Roger fucking Davis, answer me right fucking know!" he pounded on the rainy cement, desperation climbing up his throat until it closed and a cry exited, enough to make you think that Mark himself had just been shot through the heart—or had he?—or something of that nature.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? You can't leave! YOU CAN'T GO LIKE THIS! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DIE?" he asked over and over, shaking Roger's shoulders. A better question came to his attention: "WHO THE FUCK KILLED YOU, ROGER?"

Then, as Mark stared down into his old friend's eyes, they snapped open, and Roger's face warped into anger. "You did, Mark."

— —

"Mark? _Mark?_"

Somebody was shaking him, he picked up on. Had he passed out? Was he in the hospital? Where was Roger?

"What?" he jolted up in bed and came face-to-face with Mimi, the new Mimi, the short-haired dance instructor Mimi who had married a kindergarten teacher from SoHo. "Oh, sorry!" Relief like no other flooded through Mark like no other. "I just had a nightmare that Roger—..." he stopped.

Roger _did_, Mark. Remember? One year ago, today? You said he told you he wanted you to unplug the machine... or do you not remember _that _either, Mark?" her harsh tone bruised him, and she turned around, heels clicking, and walked out.

Mark's eyes looked at the calendar.

_November 19__th  
__RIP, Roger._

**A/N:** I'm addicted to MarkRoger friendship now! Ahh, I've always been, but after writing _Open_... I really kind of jumped on the train. I really don't know about this story... where it came from, etc. It's sad.. I got shivers writing about Roger's death. Ugh. ):

More depressing stories from me. I'll stop, it's starting to make me sick, legit. I'm starting to get depressed...

Review.

-Steph.


End file.
